


Flora’s Haven

by PeonyBlack



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fantasy, Forced Relationship, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Romance, Slow Burn, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-01 09:41:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15140342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeonyBlack/pseuds/PeonyBlack
Summary: Flora, a struggling artist, is given as concubine to the master of the lighthouse





	1. 1

 

  
All things come to an end. Even my trip across the sea, to the place which in Nearles we call Audemar.

But its people call it Armorie, and the name fits better to the rich, bold flavour of this land of marvellous light and colour. On that first day, as I stepped foot on the shore, I was in awe.

The sea was a bluish green, the sky a greenish blue, and the sun a golden turquoise. White mountaintops reflected the deep, the waves reflected the sky, and the sky was a mirror for this world which was so unlike any other.

I'd arrived to Armorie same as I'd left Nearles: Hungry and miserable, trapped inside the belly of a merchant ship. Fitting, since I was nothing but chattel: All I knew at the time was that the Count of Clamart had given me to the lighthouse master, who had paid for me in gold. Thus, my verdict had been remitted to banishment and servitude, a fate that made my heart shrink inside my chest. The Clamart prison had been a place of unspeakable horrors, but I suspected my new life would not be poles apart.

I was nothing and no one. An artist, a living plaything in a city that had more than its share of musicians, poets, painters and courtesans. This aristo had little need of fetching one from the dungeons. He shouldn't have paid in gold either, because my kin travelled willingly, and often settled for mere pieces of silver. But I was already forsaken. No one was bound to ask about me. No one would beat an eyelid if I were to disappear. I had but to imagine the sinister designs expecting me in this foreign land.

I wallowed in self-pity during the long voyage, seeing all kind of atrocities in my mind, and lamenting the loss of my liberty, such as it was. My mother was born a servant to the count, and my father remained a mystery. But she was beautiful, and so was I. She sang, and I sang, too. She did wonders with her needle, and I was able to draw. Once, playing with the other children, I had captured the image of the Count's favourite horse with a stick in the dirt. The servants found us, and marvelled. The Count had decided to have me trained at the university in Nearles.

At seventeen, I'd presented the count with the accolade delivered by the university, and he'd decided to get good value from his investment. I'd remained in his service until my own stupidity had landed me in prison. The court in Clamart was a large, glamorous one. I was familiar with the habits of the men that wielded power, and knew to be wary of them. Back home I'd felt the weight of bondage in more ways than one, but never had I foreseen such terrible servitude as the one I was about to enter.

"Are you ready, child?" the captain asked me.

Expectations are always placed on women, especially on one who's only value resides in beauty, and youth. It was not easy meeting them on a sailing ship. From what little I owned, I'd been allowed to carry very little. While the lighthouse master's gold went to the Count, the city was yet to recover the costs of an imprisonment that hadn't ended in an execution. In Nearles, one had to pay to attend such a spectacle.

I'd been wearing my best dress for my last appearance in the Count's court. The second best had been seized. But I still managed to take one with me, even if it was cotton, not silk, and a pale wine shade instead of brilliant red. Cut simply by my mother, the dress used to drape my body, showing off its lines. It was too large now, leaving me with no choice but to belt it with a long, black ribbon. I combed my hair, and, also from lack of options, I let it fall freely on my shoulders. I had no powders, no oils, no vermillion or charcoal to paint my face. I searched it, using a silvery cup for a mirror, and found that I looked much like a fresh corpse.

During our long winters, I had seen people lost to the bite of cold. This type of death is particularly deceitful, often taking the victim unawares. The denial that clang to their faces like smoke to a chimney had not kept them from freezing. As I told myself I might live with the disappointment of the lighthouse master, I was not confident in the least.

During the voyage, the captain had shown me nothing but kindness. When in his cups, which was quite often, he'd voiced concern and indignation over my fate. He was kind once again, meeting me with a wistful smile.

"Wish I were twenty years older."

The too large dress flopped around me like a sail as I rewarded him with a swirl, and a bow. "Don't you mean younger?"

"Older," he insisted, shaking his head, with a long look that read almost like pity. "So that I die with your face fresh in my mind. You are the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen."

Keep me, I wanted to say. We won't have to do their bidding any longer. I'll learn to sail. We can be pirates. We can be free. But I dismissed the temptation as madness. In our world built of lies, I had taken comfort in fantasy once, and it had ended in disaster. I had to accept that I was, in fact, just a beautiful thing.

The dress kept slipping off my shoulders that were once white and round. I pulled it low down my right one, letting the bones in plain sight. It might pass as an attempt at seduction. But without the paints, I could not manage a smile.

The ship had already docked in the harbour. I sat on the shore, and waited for my life to end. But after a while I took to watching: the forest, the boats, the blue roofs of the small houses in the distance, the flight of the sea birds and the fat, pale clouds.

I forgot about the hollow in my belly, the weariness of thirst in the afternoon's heat. I no longer experienced the sickness that had been a constant torture during my time at sea. All thoughts left my mind. The voices of the workers and sailors that carried the stock to land faded into the background. The colour was like music, and it played all around me.

The music grew stronger once the rider came in sight, all wrapped in a white cape to keep from the scorching heat. The tall, splendid horse sprang along the beach, dancing in the rolling surf. Silver charms adorned the harnesses. The breeze carried their sweet chime to my ear. Approaching with the back to the sun, the rider made for a magnificent scene.

But then, the workers left their tasks, and lowered their heads. All movement paused around me. The people gathered there on business, or merely to witness the arrival of the ship exchanged subdued words. I acknowledged the value of the horse. In a flash of awareness, the identity of the rider revealed itself to me.

My first impulse was run. My second, spit in his face. I could do neither. I stayed put, ironed to the sand under the soles of my feet, and waited for the lighthouse master, the master of the place – and mine.

I was straight in the horse's path. I wasn't unaware. I was not overwhelmed by weariness, anxiety or heat. I grasped all too well the importance of first impressions. I realized I had to move to safety, had to centre myself on reaching that inner state of calm essential when performing in front of an audience, one that included the man with complete power over my fate. But I could not, or better yet, would not.

For all my years of training, a part of me still eluded control. Before I went away, my mother used to call it my "mean streak", and silently prayed it would go away. Her prayers had worked as little as the methods of discipline enforced at the university, or as anything else – not at all. Over the years, it had grown into my worst personal foe, always seeking my own undoing.

Currently, I faced one of those instances when – once more – it would not listen to reason. My enemy's voice descended upon me like the dark-winged daemons of sleep descend upon the world in the small hours. Unmoved by the beauty around us, it dragged into the light the hideousness of my situation. It hissed in my ear, calling me weak and coward and sycophant, and dared me to prove otherwise. In truth, I could not, since I was all those things, but neither could I let my archenemy win.

So maybe I was at a loss; or maybe upon my arrival in Audemar I wasn't quite as sane as I used to be; or maybe I'd never been to begin with. At the edge of my vision I made out the lean, tall figure of a rider, highly balanced on the back of the horse. I did not move. I heard panicked cries coming from the crowd. I watched as the master of the lighthouse stormed on me like a fury, and I saw very little.

A few broken heartbeats, and the tall roan reared up inches away from me. Sand stirred in a white cloud. In a blur of movement, I caught a glimpse of silver spurs. Then, a strong, gloved hand pulled at the rains.

"Ho, girl," he directed, a hint of panic surging through his Armorian drawl, as he fought to master the beast.

The voice was young. Only then, upon hearing it, instinct finally bested my insanity. My vision narrowed, realising the danger. As I found myself scrambling backwards, I stumbled over someone's legs, and ended up sprawled in the sand.

"There, there," said the same voice, as the horse, huffing and puffing, eventually settled with its legs on the ground. The rider patted the long, elegant neck, and jumped from the saddle, handing the rains over to one of the men.

"Are you well?" He said – to me, with unexpected concern.

I had no answer for him. I didn't know myself. What had I been trying? Stand up to him maybe, when I didn't have a leg to stand on? Where are you now, I hissed to my inner foe, where are you, with all your high talk?

That my enemy had turned silent was proof enough no part of me remained which was not a coward. My moments of madness were always short-lived, as opposed to their consequences. I ducked my head low, and told myself it was out of my hands, which were dirty and a little scraped from my fall, and presently shaking.

Isn't it amazing how quickly fear can make one forsake all thoughts of beauty? Only a couple of feet remained between us, and the proximity, same as all the attention I was getting, escalated my sense of foreboding. My heart beat strongly in my neck as his eyes lingered on me. But there was only so much I could save – and while I had the feeling it was very little, I had long learnt that beggars cannot choose.

Bright spots still played before my eyes. The sand burnt like a furnace. My body ached. I did not dare to move. I just clenched my hands in front of me, and glued my eyes to the ground. I spoke, by rote. If I hadn't lost all taste in my mouth already, it would have felt sour.

"Forgive me. I apologise for the inconvenience."

"Oh, no harm done," he said as graciously as I'd ever heard in polite company. "Everyone can ride safely with no fair maiden standing in their way. Thank you, for the challenge."

His voice was like thick wine, all smooth despite the drawl. I could not help the sense that he was mocking me. Maybe he also thought that he was being charming. Knowing the games aristos enjoyed playing, I thought he was being petty. And also, that nothing good could possibly come from him finding me a challenge.

"Thank you, sir," I said, to the sand.

"Haven," he replied, in a tone of vague displeasure.

I did not follow. I couldn't see what the harbour had to do with anything. My confused gaze darted to him, and, acknowledging my mistake, instantly to the ground again.

Booted feet shuffled across the sand, ever closer.

"I've been told, on several occasions, that I'm not at all hard on the eyes." He released a soft chuckle. "Quite the contrary."

He thought, indeed, that he was being charming. Certain that he could use a lesson in modesty, I still did as he wanted.

I raised my eyes, just as he raised a long arm to brush wind-ruffled, sun-kissed locks away from a sharp, chiselled face. The large sleeve of his cape pooled around his elbow, revealing a canvas of tanned skin, and muscles that curled underneath like sleepy kittens. His lips were bitten by sun and salt, and by the shape and feel, deserving of far kinder lovers. A smile hung to their corners, open, and a bit unsure. He had light, changing eyes, like the play of waves on coins thrown at the bottom of a sacred spring, and I couldn't pinpoint the colour.

Whatever his flaws, it seemed clear he was not lacking in modesty. White-winged daemons of light were painted on temple walls in his image. Dread gripped me tighter in its claws. I could imagine no benign reason to buy what might have easily been given freely.

"However," he went on, in the playful tone I had already come to hate, "I find adoring gazes slightly embarrassing."

I realized I was gawking. Blood rose to my head. I turned my face downwards again.

"I'm sorry, sir." But I did not sound regretful. To my own ear, I sounded sick and tired.

He sighed deeply. "My name is Haven, of Valmory. Has no one bothered telling you?"

No one had bothered telling me. I couldn't tell why they should have had, but at least it made sense. With clarity, I knew now what he expected of me. I just couldn't bring myself to give it to this man who had bought me, and now pretended to court me. My eyes stung, and I kept them stubbornly on the ground. I did my best to crush down the anxiety quick to rise inside my chest, and decided to let him play his games on his own.

An uneasy silence followed. Then, Haven of Valmory leaned in, and offered me his bent arm. I shrank away. He but waited. Powerless anger stirred inside of me like sand under the breeze with the unfairness of it all. I deemed chains preferable to this mockery. Every moment lapsed struck a blow to my being. Finally defeated, I placed my hand on his arm, careful to contain my fingers to the part still covered by the sleeve.

After the scorching sand, there was something fresh about the closeness. My strained muscles protested as I gathered myself up. I swayed back and forward, hating that I had to shift my weight to him. Standing, my head reached his shoulder. He remained still and patient for the time it took me to regain balance, and looked away as I quickly withdrew my hand.

"I imagine you're tired. There is an inn. There is a carriage, as well, but we should maybe wait for the heat to recede."

I did not care for an inn. I did not care for more eyes on me. I had made enough of a spectacle as it was. And I did not care to postpone my meeting with fate. Every part of me refused this farce.

"I'm fine to go now."

The waters of his eyes took a darker hue, like the sea on a rainy day. "You hardly look fine, and I doubt that you are. There's danger in the heat, and you are new to it."

"Please," I said, as I'd been certain I would. I had also learnt long ago how to beg sweetly. I had just the right words for it. "Let me go now, Haven."

He searched my face at first, with a wondering look. But then he smiled down on me, an all too innocent smile that warmed his features and made him look even younger than he was.

"Whatever you want, Flora."

I froze in stunned silence. Thunder striking out of that clear summer sky would not have shocked me more than the sound of my name, falling from his lips.

 


	2. Chapter 2

  
The lighthouse master's home was not the old, sinister castle haunted by blood-thirsty dead aristos that I'd imagined during my trip. It was a white, large mansion with a high blue roof, overlooking the sea and exquisite in its simplicity.

A splendid garden, with pools of teal water, surrounded the building. Lush pines and sweeps of fresh lawn swayed gently in the breeze. Tea-scented roses climbed high on white fences, and white lime stone layered the alleys. As the carriage, loaded with merchandise from the ship, rolled into the yard, herds of wild pigeons watched with great fascination through their beady little eyes.

Left to the company of a driver, I enjoyed the fresh sky and the mild light, despite the heat. Stating he had business to conduct with the captain, Haven of Valmory had remained in town. I understood his original intent had been for us to return at dusk, together, and expected some form of payment would be extracted for the concession. But for now, I was relieved.

The estate was as amazing as the town, if not more. I used to paint places like this on cheap paper, and sell them who those who only afforded low-priced dreams. I could hardly believe it was real.

But then I remembered that the master of this resplendent residence was an aristo that bought and owned souls. I remembered the lectures from the university, which proclaimed that people who are the property of another – though they remain people, are mere chattel. I remembered how, for all its grandiose beauty, the princely court in Clamart was the mouth of a hungry monster, feeding on life and hope and joy, and the false ring to its cheerful music. I remembered how I had nothing, for even if I called this master 'mine', he did not belong to me. It was rather that I was his, a tool to be used in the same manner one uses clothes or furniture, nothing more.

Whatever spirit I had left shattered to slivers like cheap glass. All this beauty was not meant for me. I had no part of it. I had no right to raise my eyes to it if my master did not grant it to me. If I could stick a knife in my heart right there and then I would not have bleed.

The people I met, servants of the lighthouse master, treated me with enough patience. I was sent for the baths, fed and taken to a fresh room with hard pinewood floors and bright yellow walls. There, I was directed to sleep with the promise that I'd be awakened if needed.

It really was a pretty room; with a door, and no lock, a window, and another door that seemed to lead into a balcony. Someone had closed the shutters, to keep out the sun. Peeking through, I saw a large terrace, going around the mansion. Fire pots had been placed along the rail, for the burning of incense with the charcoals. The floor was made of million pieces of coloured stone, put together in a geometrical pattern. The centrepiece showed a group of doves drinking from a bowl. It was a wondrous work of art. I only wished I could see it better, but I didn't feel like taking the chance.

I went to sleep, for the first time in months in a firm, solid bed with clean, lemon-scented sheets. I craved to leave awareness behind for a while. The hall of Clamart, with its painted ceiling, where cranes danced on a field of gold, flapping their old silk wings, usually haunted my dreams. I found myself there, knowing a man whose face I could not see had claimed me for the night. I gave to walk to him, and discovered I could no longer move. There was a weight upon me, crushing my backbone. At the edge of my vision, I made out the tips of tanned fingers: the hand of Haven of Valmory, clenched on my shoulder tight enough to bruise. His eyes were ablaze.

" _You are not fine, and I doubt you will be._ "

I tried to crawl away, but he only pressed harder. Then, in that incomprehensible fashion of dreams, everything shifted, so that he was now lying on top of me, holding me down between his knees, his voice a vicious hiss in my ear.

" _Whatever I want, Flora._ "

I twisted and turned, clutched at the sheets with tight fingers, and opened my eyes. A fresh air had replaced the heat of the afternoon. I heard the rolling of the sea in the silence. I gulped down the bitterness rising in my throat. It was dark now, and no one had come for me.

The house bathed in a deep, ultramarine quiet. Haven's face kept surfacing in my thoughts. In my mind, I walked a narrow footbridge, suspended between hate and deceit, in terrible peril of crashing down. Indeed, I was falling. I merely blinded myself to that at the time.

No longer able to close my eyes, I tossed about in my bed until morning finally came, my first one on these shores. Jumping from the bed in a fit of panic, I threw water over my face from the small basin, and put on what clothes had been left for me to wear. An unusual attire: a large chemise of white linen that reached my calves, embroidered with a pattern of green leaves around the neck and sleeves. The belt was a mere string of twisted rope. Scoffing, I tied it around me. Looking ridiculously like a temple nun, I stormed out of the room barefoot.

Reeling with lack of sleep, I walked outside, into an indigo dawn. Water and sky morphed together at the line of horizon. Patches of white broke through a thin blanket of clouds. The air was new and salty. Cool dew coated the lawn and the roses. In the distance, I made out a small isle, all covered with green shrubs, and the sea-washed contours of the lighthouse. The world was waking, same as lovers awake: to a bitter-sweet farewell after a night of delight. It was almost painful to the eye; but then again everything was painful. Every single fibre in my body hurt, as if I'd been through yet another session with the prison guards.

I stood there for so long, feeling too much at once. Eventually, I ended up not feeling at all. I went numb.

"There you are! Hurry! The Master asked for you!"

She was a pretty maid, with dimpled cheeks, whose voice conveyed only disapproval. She led me, not into the mansion, but to the kitchens. There, inside a long, narrow hall, with copper pots and pans hanging on the white walls, I found Haven, the master.

Also dressed in a white tunic, trimmed with threads of gold and silk, he was fishing with his fingers from all kind of platters and bowls, under the indignant gaze of a grey-haired, round-faced cook. To her merit, she had the good sense of standing quietly to the side.

"Good morning," I said from the door. With new insight into his game, I did not append an honorific; but I couldn't bring myself to speak his name, either.

He spun around to face me. His hand held what looked like, and in fact was a lustrous, glistening peach.

"You vanished," he said, with an accusing look.

My stomach winded up around itself. I had not stopped to consider I might not be allowed outside. With so much time within the confines of a cell, I'd simply gone, because there had been no lock on my door to stop me.

"I was outside. I'm sorry for the inconvenience."

He paused, just short of biting into the peach. In the morning light, his eyes borrowed the colour of amber. "I can't help feeling that I'm the inconvenience, Flora."

No, of course not. My brain supplied the reassuring words. But the daemon in me flopped its wings.

"I cannot help with how you feel, Haven." So, the creature had also found a voice. It threw the name his way, like coins to a beggar, and, for a moment that counted for nothing in the ocean of time, jolted me up right.

A shocked gasp passed the lips of the cook. The pretty servant girl covered her mouth with her hand. Haven of Valmory but stared at me.

"Your words are sweet as wine." His voice was as sore as a new bruise. "Left open for several days."

Sensing blood, the daemon rejoiced. Like a warden, it captured my reason, locked the door and threw away the key.

"Indeed. And yet, such vintage wine is what you bought."

He met my contempt like a man suddenly unfamiliar with the mechanics of breathing. Faced with his look, I started grasping the consequences of my defiance. Fear dug its talons into me once more. I had gone far, too far to find my way back.

The lord raised his arm. I thought he'd strike me. In a way, I hoped he might. But he just dropped the peach. Its ripe, tender skin broke against the tiles, flesh dripping with sweet summer blood. He flinched, and drew in a long breath.

"I was charmed by the bottle." A smile stretched his sinful lips thin. "Please, let's not drink it now. We haven't even had breakfast. Are you hungry?"

My knees were shaking. Blood drummed in my ears. I could not have eaten for the life of me. Or speak, for that matter. Silently, I shook my head.

"Tired still? Care to go back to sleep?"

Too tired, yes; but sleep was not an option. I shook my head again.

He raised a patient eyebrow at me. "Is there anything at all that you need?"

I needed the world. He was not one to give it to me. "I cannot think of anything."

"Then come with me to the beach. Before it gets too hot. I promise you'll be hungry when we return."

I was wearing the strange dress – having, in fact, nothing else to wear, since the clothes I had arrived with had been taken away. "Like this?"

He unfolded his arms, a self-explanatory gesture since he was dressed the same, and his feet were also bare.

I had no more arguments, nor did I care to imagine why he now threatened me with food. I nodded my compliance. What would come would come.

He pushed a small, cloth satchel into my arms, and picked one up himself. "Come on, I'll show you the way."

He cut through the garden at a brisk step, and then descended towards the white, pebbled beach. The sky was starting to clear. The waters glimmered in the distance – turquoise and silver. Haven's fair hair danced in the wind as his long legs brushed the path. He was stunning when still. In movement, he was a masterpiece. And, just as I couldn't help stealing fascinated glances at him, I realised I also hated him, from the bottom of my heart.

 


	3. Chapter 3

  
While I walked after Haven to the beach, I grew more and more desperate. I would have given anything to go back, and change things. As they stood, I felt trapped in a maze.

I'd been proficient in observing the strict rules of our society, whether as a student in Nearles or as a servant of the House of Clamart. I had learnt when to speak, and when to be silent. When to compliment an aristo, when to press for a spare piece of silver, and when to let the nobles of my land take whatever they desired for free, whether it was my art or my body. I made do. I heartened myself with tales of gods and heroes that would redeem us all. Over time, I even started believing in them, and that foolish hope had stolen my life away.

I still called myself an artist, but over these last winters, the life I'd lived had also been that of a courtesan. Outside the constraints of rank, and the orders of the Count, I still got to choose. When required, I even managed seduction. It seemed I was not able with Haven of Valmory.

It was different with a man that had been forced on me forever, or at least, for as long as he decided to keep me. I could not begin to imagine what to say to him. I didn't think the truth was an answer. He would not like it, for certain. Besides, truth was something to be shared and valued between equals, and friends. We were none of those things.

Instead, I had showed him nothing but insolence. What in chaos had possessed me? I had been degraded in my life, starved and hurt at aristo hands, but he'd done nothing of the sorts just yet.

In fact, Haven had been rather generous. I resented him nonetheless, as the man who held my life in his hands (and I understood all too well that such hands might move on a whim), and as the man whom I feared.

My hate was, then, a perverse effect of my bondage. Surely, it was an appalling yoke, made of misfortune and injustice. It would follow that hate was at the core of it.

But still, I was grateful to him, for the silence. Or had been, while it lasted. After a few turns through the rocky landscape, he took to looking over his shoulder from time to time, as though to make sure that I followed. A little while longer, and he started whistling softly to himself. Finally, he halted, spinning around so suddenly I all but collided with him.

"Will you talk to me, Flora? I'm bored."

"Of course," I replied, as politely as I could muster. It seemed my purpose, for now, was to entertain. I was suddenly remembered of a particularly amusing anecdote, about a beggar girl, a lord and an ass – that is to say, a donkey. I wondered what he'd make of it, if I were suddenly to recount it. "What would you like me to say?"

"Ah, but I can't help what you say, can I," he said, repeating my words back to me, as he innocently held my eyes. "Speak what you will."

In the light of that sunny morning, his eyes were the colour of rare amber: a deep, rich shade of green specked generously with gold. Some people believe such gem brings long life, and good fortune. As it went for a high price, the less reputed jewellers forged it, by heating up pieces of the more common, yellow amber. As a student of colours, I vowed his irises were very much the genuine thing.

"Forgive me."

Long eyelashes fluttered, battling the sun. "What for?"

"You are bored." I tilted my head, looked up at him, and finally forced a smile, my best attempt at seduction in my current state. I prayed my memory served me well. "What do you want to do? Tell me, and I will. I promise to try very hard."

This I said, while we walked closer to the waterfront. Seagulls cut the sky like so many arrows. There was no telling about the depth, but the sea was so clear that rocks were visible on the bottom. Terrors shook me. He turned to me, with indecision in his gaze.

"I wanted us to talk." A rift deepened between Haven's brows. "What do you want, Flora?"

I'd once wanted the world. I'd longed to capture it for the length of eternity. I'd wanted to change it. Then, I'd wished for the daemons of chaos, to tear it down into pieces. I wanted, but I I could never have. Instead, I settled for him no longer forcing empty words from me. I told him the truth. What harm might be done, other than adding a twig or two to the rod of birch intended for my whipping?

"I don't want anything."

He heard me right: I don't want you. Clouds gathered over Haven's face. I looked away from him, listening to the cries of alarm of the seabirds, to the endless surge of the waves that crashed against the shore. But all that noise was not the origin of the roar in my ears. It was rather his silence, the absence of his decision, the anticipation that kindled it.

"You are wasting my water. I'll have need of it."

His words stole my attention away from the tumult of my emotions. The satchel had slipped down from my shoulder, and water - for it appeared it was water that I carried - was oozing through the cloth. I set it up right again, as fast as I could, still not willing to meet his gaze.

I had sand in my throat, sand behind my eyelids. Would he say nothing more, and leave me to imagine his wrath?

"We came all this way in the sun. We might as well go swimming."

"No. I won't," I said sharply. "I don't want to." It had not occurred to me so far that he'd meant for me to swim along with him. It should have had, in hindsight. But I was in such state of confusion that the most obvious of things eluded me. Dread clutched me into its bony arms. Had I realised it earlier, I would have never aggravated him.

Specks of darkness surged in his amber eyes. "Is this your definition of trying very hard?"

"I don't know how." Horror delivered a mortal blow to my pride. If ever there had been a time for begging, this was it. "I never learnt. Please, don't make me! Please, Haven!"

"Chaos, you think I'll drag you along against your will?" He turned his back to me, and pulled the robe over his head in one quick, angry move. He hurled it at a rock across the shore, and missed as the breeze carried it away. "Whatever your impression of me, I'm not a savage, Flora."

He spoke quickly, over his shoulder, and cast himself into the sea. He cut the waves with vigorous strokes, and soon all I could only see was a dark point in the distance, towards where the sea joined the sky.

He'd already dragged me along against my will. It would, however, take a better actor than many I'd seen to fake the outrage conveyed by his voice. Maybe it was about more than my refusal to go into the sea. Maybe I should have talked to him. He seemed inclined to answer my questions, for all that I couldn't trust the answers. My mind was spiraling, out of control. I no longer knew what to believe.

It was but a miserable end, following a miserable beginning. I went and collected his discarded robe, and folded it neatly. I went through the satchel and found linen towels. I set them on the rock, in the sun, and put the water in the shadow of the pine trees.

Left with nothing more to do, I sat out of the sun, with my head on top of my knees. I stared at the sky and at the birds, and tried hard not to stare at the sea. I tried equally hard not to think of the city prison, and the plank to which I had been restrained for the test of the sorcerer. While they poured water over my cloathed face, while I could do nothing to defend myself, not as little as flinch away, or, after a while, as scream.

I was grateful for the pebbles in the sand that jabbed at me. That cursed piece of wood had been flat and neat.

I lost track of myself out there, in the shade. I might have dozed off for a bit. I came back to the feel of water, dripping on the back of my neck. I panted for air, jumped, and crawled backwards on the ground, all in one panic-driven move. I only stopped as I realized that I was unrestrained.

Sprawled in the sand, prompted up on an elbow, Haven bore an expression of genuine shock. The flask of water I had brought along rested by his side. He must have been out of the sea for a while. He was already dressed, but his hair was moist, and his skin covered in dry salt. Heat coloured my cheeks. I directed my poisonous glance at the ground.

"I'm sorry," I said, but only because he'd caught me. In truth, he should have been the one to apologize to me. But only in a world where he did not have the power to do as he pleased. Not in this one.

I heard him sigh in frustration. "Flora, did you lose something in the sand?"

The last shreds of my dignity, for certain. I fixed my gaze on the solid body of a pine, and let my face burn hotter.

"I'm sorry. It was a stupid joke. Why didn't you tell me you fear water?"

I feared far more things than I could count out for him. It was the last thing I wanted. Haven of Valmory also ranked among them. I didn't tell him it wasn't water, but drowning. I let him think what he would. But just then, the daemon prodded at me with its spiked tail.

"To how many strangers do you tell the things you fear?"

Stupid, stupid daemon! Now he might put his mind to actually writing down a list! Also, calling him a stranger was an insult. Any comparison between my position and his, yet another. I wouldn't have gotten away with such defiance back in Nearles. At best, the Count would have wiped the words from my lips with the back of his palm. He showed an unusual degree of tolerance, and just buried his hands deep in the hot sand. Time and time again, I watched it trickle through his long fingers. Eventually, he said,

"The sea is kind here in the morning, and it's shallow near the shore. You could have at least stayed in the sun. Frankly, you're as pale as a ghost."

That stung me, for some reason. More than it should have, given that it was true. I looked worse than I'd ever had – discounting my time in city prison, where there was, indeed, a penury of quiet, sunny beaches. I told myself the same thing every time I happened near a mirror. But when he said it, the daemon went feral, bristling like the furr of a shinny, black cat.

"The Count possibly overcharged you. Write to him. He does haggle."

Haven scowled at me. "Do you do it purpose?"

I did many things on purpose. And many, I did not. "Do what, Haven?"

"I had a tutor once, who taught me how to ride. I was very young, and I would try to hold on to his hand. Every time I reached out, every single time, without mistake, he'd hit me over the fingers with a twig. You remind me of him. And do not say you're sorry this time."

My own laughter shocked me. It was brief, and not particularly happy. But it had been a while, and I imagined I might have forgotten how to do it. I'd never entertained such strange notion as to attempt holding on to the tutors I'd had at the university. They'd never entertained such strange notion as an actual reason to hit me. "But look at how wonderfully you ride."

"I stil grip the rains with both hands." He flashed a smile at me. "So that I'm not tempted. Flora, I heard something. It sounded like laughter, but it can't be. I didn't laugh, an you'd never, at something I said."

I shrugged, as casually as I remembered how. "I didn't hear anything."

He leaned back his head and laughed in his turn, obviously pleased with himself. I found myself watching him with the eye of the artist, taking in the lines of his face, the eerie symmetry of his proportions. Lean muscles leaped as he stretched, under skin the sun had turned to bronze. He was the perfect study for the statue of a lazy god. Perhaps I entertained strange notions, after all. I'd never had the force required for sculpture. But, for the first time in a very, very long time, I experienced that itch, the restlessness in my fingers that I got whenever I needed to draw.

"You're not a stranger to me, Flora," Haven said, all of the sudden. "Let's go home. I'll try hard to convince you."

 


	4. Chapter 4

  
Haven let me be until dinner.

We walked home in silence that was almost polite. Somewhere along the way, I settled for being alive, and unharmed. His thoughts remained a mystery, but he made no other attempts to engage me in conversation.

He said his goodbyes, and vanished, to the baths or the harbour, or maybe to the lighthouse. I was in the dark as to the day-to-day activities in Valmory, or to the business of a lighthouse master. I preferred it that way. Chains already bound me to this place. I was in need of no more ties.

I spent most of the day alone, in my room. A late, frugal lunch was brought to me by the same maid who kept giving me the evil eye. She rubbed me the wrong way. Something about her reminded me of the Count's wife, Lady Geraldine.

Officially, the lady of Clamart oversaw the education of the servant girls under her roof. She bestowed largesse, seeking to prove herself worthy of the title her husband had acquired with the gold gathered by a long line of merchants. She didn't really pay much attention to us, other than to pinch our cheeks or arms, or pull at our hair when we got in her way. I was stubborn, difficult, and a favourite recipient of her corrections.

Her repulsion of me had only grown once her son forced me into his bed. The lady lamented that I'd stolen his mind. Truly, there wasn't much there to steal. But she started her war with me, and she started the rumours.

She spread word that I'd gotten my eyes on the Count. His preference was an open secret. But she pointed out how, since my return, I'd spent far too many nights in his rooms. I'd had. The Count had a penchant for lewd sketches of his favourites, and I drew quickly, and cheaply. Still, the sheer ridicule of the gossip somehow made it credible. It had to be sorcery. The lady talked around each corner of how she feared for her life, and didn't stop when, exasperated, the Count sent his offspring away. The lady hated me more, adding corruption of fatherly affection to my list of sins.

Spellbound; the Count had fallen victim to my designs.

Having thus graduated from struggling dauber to harlot, and further, to witch, my alleged number of conquests grew to include men and even some women, most of whom I'd never as much as breathed the air in the same room with. Clamart was hardly the place to put a price on morals, but I slowly became an outcast. In a way, prison was timely. I dreaded the winter to come, feared that my mother and I would freeze, or starve.

Perhaps the lady's antagonism held more weight than my purported dark craft. I didn't seem to inspire much fear. The Count still passed me around. Two days prior to my last performance in court, his head servant beat me black and blue. It hadn't been the first time, and not even one of the worse. But it had been around the time when I'd decided enough was enough.

The girl returned for the tray. From the tip of her lips, she informed me I was to have dinner with the master tonight, on the terrace. Oh, I knew how these dinners went. Unflattering dresses and unkempt hair did not cut it. My first reaction was to ask for my clothes.

She threw me a smile. Corners of sweet pink lips turned upwards, but the look she gave me was that of Lady Geraldine, when she preached I should have my hair cut off, and be ordered to the flogger.

"We threw them away."

We; she wouldn't have, unless Haven had ordered it. Talking of adoring gazes: I could see she worshiped the ground he walked on. I might never meet my mother again in this life. He'd thrown away the last dress she had made for me.

I wasn't ready to cry. I remembered how I was a witch. I spun on my heels, and jutted out my chin. "I've forgotten your name."

She'd never given me her name. Courtesy, even from the servants, was not for creatures such as me.

"Milena," she said, in a short, clipped voice; as she would, perhaps, talk to a dog.

"Well, you should have burnt them, Milena," I said, with a poisonous smile. "The corruption might still spread."

I thought if I really were a dog, she'd kick me. Her auburn hair, braided with coloured strings, flopped over her shoulders as she scampered away. I gave my sand-dusted robe a disconsolate look. Romantic concepts aside, pretty in rags was not as easy to manage as they wrote down in poems. Haven had objected over my looks, but couldn't be bothered to provide for me.

Unable to sort out the dress conundrum, I tried the door to the terrace. I thought perhaps I'd get a chance to study the lovely mosaic. But it was locked, so I went to the window.

The view stole the breath from my lips.

A vast expanse of sea embraced the sun. Light layered the water with a veneer of silver. The sky was deep and pure, the pines so fresh. The breeze carried the scent of the roses. In the yard, laundry blew in the wind, cleaner than clean.

Laundry! But I still didn't dare, and where in chaos was my daemon, when I needed it? I had to make up my mind all on my own. I was already a witch, and a harlot. Was I ready to turn thief?

I stormed into the yard, and had my pick: a long night robe that could belong only to him. Too long, the trim swept the ground. Too wide, but I tightened the cordon around me, and rolled up the sleeves. I managed only so much. In front, the cut reached so low it was almost obscene. But it was a bright green, and smooth to the touch. It would have to do.

At first, I debated running back with my spoils. Luckily, the afternoon heat had driven everyone into hiding. I didn't, in the end. I had no intention to hide my foul deed. I walked to the baths, with my head held high, and asked the old woman I encountered there for soap, and oils, and a comb. I, too, could speak like Lady Geraldine. Apparently, it got things done.

My hair was too long for my liking, and too black for my paleness. I tossed it over my shoulder, and tied it up into a loose braid.

The result was fitting. I had the look of one who'd just stepped out of bed – or was ready to climb into one.

All clean and silk-draped, I returned to my room unhurried, dragging the trims of Haven's robe through the fresh grass. That gained me a few looks, none too friendly. It suited me just fine. I'd cry for nothing and no one when he threw me out.

Curled up in a chair in front of the window, I tried to decide what degrees of green, yellow, white and blue might duplicate the shade of the pines. I debated asking Haven to buy me colours. The price was obvious, a little sweat, a little flesh, a little bit of pride. But I wondered what I might do when he decided to take them from me. I had no doubt that moment would come. Sooner rather than later, he'd grow bored of his own game. The thrill of novelty would inevitably wear off. When It happened, he'd seek compensation for all my transgressions that he'd let slip.

The light changed to a rusty gold. I had to meet Haven, and couldn't reach the terrace through my locked door. There were three rooms on the floor. I walked out, and tried the handle of the adjoining one. It opened into another bedroom, white and airy, with dark pine furniture. The bed was untouched, but the few items scattered around showed it was being lived in – by a man. It had no windows, only the terrace door, left open and covered by a blue curtain that swayed in the evening breeze. Heat coloured my cheeks, as I saw straight through Haven's plan: He controlled the only way in, and out. But I thought it was silly, because he didn't require a plan at all.

I stepped outside. The scent of citrus mingled with the pines, and a sweet, unfamiliar odor that made my nose twitch. Fire danced in the pots along the rail. Large pillows had been placed on the tiles, next to a massive wood server, where wine, cheeses and fruits waited on silver plates. I stole a glance at a teal vase, holding a freshly cut branch of yellow roses. I stole a glance at Haven, who was leaning against the rail. My breath came faster as I went to him.

Beautiful. Romantic. Utterly stupid.

He met me with eyes that glowed in the firelight, like those of a cat. "Is that mine?"

"It is."

"I shouldn't be fine with this," he said, thorn between a frown and a disbelieving laughter. "But sinful chaos, how can I not be?" He flung his arms around dramatically. "Let's go inside. A black-winged daemon might descend on us, and steal you away. Where did you even find it?"

"On the drying racks." He seemed happier with my appearance. I bowed my head slightly, in acknowledgment of his compliment. "You threw my clothes away."

The frown won, settling firmly on his features. "No, I sent them to be washed. I really don't understand. Sometimes, my household is a mystery to me."

I, on the other hand, had a small clue as to the mysteries of his household. The relief over the fate of my mother's dress made me generous.

"It doesn't matter, Haven. Thank you for the robe."

"Keep it." His eyes lingered on me, so wide the amber seemed to have consumed the white. "The colour suits you better than me."

I thought the robe would be discarded soon enough, regardless the colour. I took a step towards him.

"I'll give it back if you change your mind."

Another step, looking up at him from under my lashes. He'd set the scene for an act of seduction. Let him have it. I would live through this. Surely, I'd have it easier once he took me to bed. He'd forget all about prodding me with questions then. I would ask for my colours. I would draw again. I did not have to fight him. I had but to accept that my life was now this.

All things come to an end.

Even hope.

In reach now, I brought up my hand to brush my thumb over a high, tanned cheekbone. The feel of his skin burnt my fingers, numbed them. I witnessed the surge of darkness in his widened pupils, the fall and rise of his chest with a sudden intake of breath. He wore the look of a man who fought a battle, and stood to lose. It occurred to me he chased my hand a little. My voice dropped to a whisper, hardly a note over the chorus of the wind and sea.

"Do you want it back?"

His lids dropped, flickered, and snapped open again. He drew away, his handsome face twisted with an expression that in the moment, I failed to recognize. Anger, my mind eventually supplied. It was anger. I'd never seen it on him before.

"What are you doing, Flora?"

I felt the familiar throbbing of fear in my stomach. I felt the daemon stir. I felt as if he'd slapped me.

My hands found the silk cordon, and fumbled with it.

"I'm sweetening your wine. Did you not mean to drink?"

"I only meant to speak to you." His voice trembled defiantly, as if he'd been wrongfully accused of a crime too heinous for him to grasp. "I have been trying for these last two days."

I did not believe him. The hour of trust had not come for us. While I made no assertion of doubt, he must have somehow sensed it, because he covered my hands, curled as they were into the silk, with his.

"It's insulting," he stated, stern as a schoolmaster on the day of the trials. "To both of us. Surely, you see."

I stared down at his large, calloused hands, and decided his touch was all wrong. I felt the warmth of the tiles sweeping through the soles of my feet, but I seemed to lose feeling where his skin burnt into mine. I knew his fingers were shaking, because I saw them. If I closed my eyes, I wouldn't have guessed.

"You meant to talk with roses, and firelight, and an open door to your bedroom?"

He sighed, and threw me a reproachful look. "Your door is broken, fire keeps insects at bay, it's too warm to eat much during the day, and yes, I owe you an explanation. Also, I hoped you'd like the roses. Chaos, Flora, let's go sit down. Your hands are shaking so hard that mine throb."

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

I caught my foot in the robe, and staggered. The too long silk snaked around my ankles like smooth rope. Haven moored me to his solid frame. His stretched arm was currently my pivot, my hand in his the core of my crumbling world.

"I'll give you a pair of scissors," he promised.

I wanted to laugh at that, crazy though it was. Men had gifted me things before; never scissors. It was, I supposed, a first. I lacked back then the insight that everything was a first with Haven, same as I lacked the insight that it was also a last.

He set me down on the pillows, went to the rail, and let his gaze wander far away, where a calm,  lucent sea cradled the reddish sun. 

I tried doing the same. My thoughts were muddled, and my feelings lay too deep, out of my reach.

I was surprised to discover instead that I was watching him. His lips moved, ready for speech. And closed once more, a barricade he appear to still fight behind. 

He squinted his eyes under lowered eyebrows. The wind ruffled his golden locks.  He brushed them off, and pressed his hands against the rail, leaning towards the water.

Conflicted, he painted an arresting tragic hero, left behind on hostile shore.

What stories took such trouble telling, I wondered. 

And chaos, why did he have to be so beautiful? People often fall prey to the illusion that one virtue follows from the other, so that if something happens to be beautiful, it must also be good, brave, or bright. Being myself a beautiful thing that was rotten to the core, I recognized the fallacy: I resolved that Haven was ludicrously beautiful, and inferred nothing more. 

Splendid beauty was, in fact, to be found in Valmory. It went beyond the sea or the gardens, or the unearthly perfection of his body. But over time my heart had narrowed. Only a corner remained intact after it had been shattered to pieces. For a long while, I shut my eyes to it.

"The roses are an apology for this morning," he said, at long last, scrutinizing the horizon. "I feel I handled things wrong. And here we are."

Oddly enough, we both shared an aspiration for clemency. But he still danced around the issue, and while I had my share of talents dancing did not rank among them. Music was for the soul, and not the body. To my eyes, all the bouncing and spinning around amounted to insufferable parody.

"What will you do to me?" I asked, curling my shaking hands into the silk.

The gale slithered over me. It brought along an odd whoosh! like a fluttering of black feathers that blocked the light from Haven's eyes. 

"Not forgiven, then," he said, and the touch of night had reached his voice, also. "I'm not going to do anything to you." 

He peeled his hands away from the rail, and advanced towards the pillows. Along the way, he picked up a small rose from the vase.  He settled at polite distance, and folded his legs under his body with practiced ease.

"My father passed away last spring," he said, playing the flower on his fingers. "It was sudden, and it shuttered my world. I studied shipbuilding in Rausa a few years ago, but I'd gone back to the university, because there was supposed to be this new course into naval architecture. The lighthouse commission had always been in our family, and my father wanted to also open a yard. You might say it was our dream. Then he was gone, and I had to take over.  "

Sighing again, he rubbed his hand over his face. "It was hard on my mother, too. Eventually, she sought comfort in the temple of Alais. I was all alone, and in over my head. Sometimes, I still feel that I am.

"Clamart sends many ships to sea. I cannot avoid dealing with Count Pascal. This spring he travelled here to meet me. He is the kind of man who preys on weakness, isn't he? He saw that I was lonely, and offered you. He told me about the university, and praised your beauty and your talent. He also said you were imprisoned, and that the charges of sorcery were spurious."

He plucked at the petals, one by one, scattering small, chai-scented tears on the pillow, and crushed the stem between his fingers once done.   

"This type of arrangements are common, I know. But it's different in Nearles than here, or even in Rausa. Though the reasons may not always be noble, the participants are usually willing. You can't imagine how preposterous I found the whole thing. At the risk of putting a strain on my business with the Count, I was of a mind to refuse. I felt for you, Flora, but if the charges did not hold water, they were bound to release you. But, like I told you, I was charmed."

He reached behind the pillows, extracted a small package, and held it out to me with an encouraging look. "Count Pascal gave them to me, and said to write if I changed my mind."

Wrapped neatly in a sheet of all too familiar yellow paper, it seemed like such a simple, harmless thing. It was anything but. I shrank away at the sight, and heard my daemon whimper like a puppy Milena had kicked. 

I'd learnt, during my time at the university, of a peculiar form of madness that pushed people towards the very things they most feared. I'd already had a taste tonight. It was still taking its toll. I thought another drop would poison me. 

"I know what it is," I said, and made no move to touch it. I remained where I was, and listened to long echoes of old grief. Despite the pleasant air of the evening, I was  chilled to the bone.

I did not miss Haven's confusion. Without a doubt, the question formed in his mind. But he didn't voice it. He placed the package between us, handling it with the kind of reverent care a priest might show to a precious relic, and said, mournfully, 

"Some drawings are charred. I thought if they burnt them, what might they do to you? I thought maybe you'd like it here. I thought you would be safe, and I might be less lonely. "

Oh, but  _they_  hadn't burnt it. It had been all  _my_  doing. I'd spread a mixture of oil, honey, my own blood and ashes all over my sketch journals. I'd put a candle to them, and offered my work as tribute to the dark-winged daemons. 

But this journal I had left for last. It did not hold the preparatory studies for the works commissioned to me, no pretty maidens, no rubicund children, no honourable gentlemen, nothing of the serene, frivolous art aristos and well-to-do merchants hanged on their opulent walls.

This one was filed with drawings of all manner of things that took my attention. This one journal was my world: servants and beggars, starving artists, gamblers and whores. Soldiers, maimed from the war. Mothers with the weight of the world on their shoulders, and their children who often starved, or worse. The expression of the Count's last plaything, after he sent him from his rooms, clutching a small piece of silver. The slums of a city otherwise renowned for its magnificence.  When I'd thrown it on fire, it'd been my soul that I had burnt.

I'd chanted the incantations in front of the shocked court of Count Pascal. Oh, the look of Lady Geraldine! The triumph at having all her slurs confirmed, battling the humiliation at the same! Such breathtaking, pyrrhic victory for us both! The fire was aglow when the guards dragged me away. The Count must have recovered it from the  flames, thinking it was perhaps worth selling. 

But I didn't tell Haven any of that. In truth, I was very young at the time. I knew very little about the fragile craft of soulburning. I let the daemon bare its fangs, and shared the chill I experienced with him, sent it along with my words like a war banner nailed to a spear.

"It was not meant for you to see." It was not meant to buy anyone's grace. I'd done enough of that, and had enough. 

Haven hung his head, worrying those wicked lips where they'd already been bitten raw by the sea. 

"But I saw, Flora. I can't pretend I didn't. And it's wonderful. "

Anger shook me. He had no right staring into my soul, laying a claim to it as he did. "You find the squalor wonderful, Haven?"

He cast me a pointed look. "They're real. I don't know of anyone  who draws like this."

My skin prickled with new, hot blood. His servants spoke to me as if I were a dog. Haven spoke in the tone of one trying to coax a cat: A pet he tried to take down from the tree it'd climbed. Or maybe lecture a mischievous child, while working very hard to remain fair a reasonable. Noble of him, and absolutely annoying. I was not a child. I was not a pet. And nothing was ever fair.

"Nobody draws like this because nobody cares for such things. They're an insult to public decency." 

"I do," he stated. "And I don't think they are." 

I laughed, in disbelief. "You want me to draw for you? "

"I think you should draw, yes. If you feel like drawing." 

"Will you sell my drawings?" I frowned, thinking. This, at least, made some amount of sense. Only - not that much.  My heart thumped inside my chest, pumping ice through my veins. The only reason I found myself in Valmory instead of the city's prison was that Haven thought my art worth something. It didn't, though. I'd never been able to provide for myself back home.  I remained at the questionable mercy of the Count. "Did you not hear me, Haven? No one would buy them."

His smile was strained, as if in pity. "No matter. I'm not selling your works. They are yours." 

I battled the impulse to grab his shoulder, and shake him a little. "Then I don't understand." 

He furrowed his brow, searching my face. "I know you don't. Flora, I can take a lover. I've done it before. But I don't want to. I am not in love."

I still felt like shaking him, a little more. Was he even real? Was the flare of lust I'd sensed in him earlier the spawn of my  depraved imagination? Or were these southerners far peculiar creatures than I could ever fancy? My daemon often warred with patience. It was a bloody fight, but at least a straightforward one. Haven was wearing me thin.

"What do you want then, Haven?"

"I don't want anything," he said. And unlike when I'd spoken them this morning, the words were not a guise for bitterness. Nothing hid behind. He made them sound simple. 

"I don't understand," I repeated, and once more he said,

"I know." 

Only this time there was a timbre to his voice: the sprouting of the blue roots of sadness.


End file.
